On the Writings of an Enigma
by OrangePlum
Summary: You are Arthur Kirkland, author of a series of successful dirty novels. You are Alfred Jones, said author's biggest fan. Begin Act I. US/UK


_Author's Notes_: Remember when I didn't neglect my other stories? Yeah, me neither.

Trying out some new writing styles. I like the form I usually go with, but it's fun every now and then to broaden the palette ; )

* * *

**_Prologue_**

* * *

You are Arthur Kirkland, a shameful man with a double-life.

You grow up in Birmingham, England, of a respected family of the community; i.e. Mr. and Mrs. Kirkland. Your father is a professional in every sense of the word, putting in a plethora of hours in at the bank where he works, while your mother is a wonderful woman who tends to her home and her children.

Despite the fact that your childhood consists of fighting and bickering with your older brothers, everybody admires your family for what it is: hard-working, law abiding citizens.

When you are old enough to go off and experience the world at your own pace, you choose to move to America for college. Your mother cries and your father gives you one of those hugs with the rough pat on the shoulder. It isn't like you are the first to leave, so you never understand why they made such a big deal about it. They still have your youngest brother, Peter, after all.

Nevertheless, you grip your newfound freedom by the horns and fly across the pond to the peculiar city of San Francisco, a world completely separate from the one you know. The streets are different, the people are more open than you could've ever imagined, and the entire experience leaves you lightheaded.

It feels grand.

You attend college like your parents expect you to, their aspirations for your life to be near impossible. With your father's success in his career, he expects you to do something even greater. He always joked of you becoming a bookkeeper for some large firm, or owning your own business. You never tell anyone but the pressure to be _all that you can be and more_ made growing up nerve-wracking. But, regardless, you don't want to disappoint your parents, so you apply for an internship at City Hall and hope for the best.

Your brothers grow up to be lawyers and judges and doctors, but you can be that, too. You know, if you want.

Unfortunately, you don't want to, but the pressures from home, no matter how far away, still snap at your ankles like some rabid dog, chasing you ever closer to that white building in the city.

On the day when your acceptance notice arrives in the mail your stomach drops. After all, somewhere deep inside you hoped you would fail and can give up this life you so hate to abide by for your parents. You stare at the print for a long while at your kitchen table. You aren't sure how much time has passed but it's dark outside now and your hands are shaking, fists balled in the letter until it is unrecognizable.

You rise up from your chair with a growl, tossing it in the trash bin, and storming out to go to your computer. No more, you vow. You would not live this life for your family anymore.

And so you type all night until your hands cramp up and your skull pounds, but you don't stop. You type some more the next morning and then again that night. You type and type and never leave your computer's side for weeks and weeks, only getting up to sleep, eat, and use the facilities.

Your parents call and leave worrisome messages about getting in touch with you. You pay them no heed.

It isn't until three months later that you have what you want.

A letter in the mail.

You are going to be an author.

* * *

You are Alfred Jones, an individual who is deemed by most as a burden to society.

You don't care because you mostly agree with them. You grow up in Los Angeles, California, bathed in the glitz and glamour of the rich and materialistic. Your mother works at a local mini mart to pay the way because your father is such a deadbeat and split when you were five. But who cares? Fuck him. You don't need him anyway.

Because of this, you aren't too wealthy, but make up for it by personality and appearance.

You work out at the gym every evening and tan at the beach when the weather calls for it. You are the class clown but still get straight As. Hey, you can't let your mother down when she works her ass off for you. You are popular and pretty; at least that's what the general consensus is in the writings on the girl's bathroom stalls at your high school.

You don't have much, but what you have is enough. Clothing is big at your school, and you only own a handful. What you do own is fancy and expensive. After all, you'd rather have quality over quantity.

Your mom is proud of you and you want to keep it that way. There are too many days when your dad would show up and cause problems, drunk and yelling because that's what deadbeats do. Sometimes he says nice things about you and your mom, and that he wants to come back and change everything. Other times he threatens to take you away and your mom would cry.

You hit your dad on those instances, and a couple times he hits you back.

You never want to be like your father, and that is why you choose to go to college and become something great.

Your mom never had high expectations, just to finish high school and do what you find enjoyable. God knows your dad thinks you'd be where he is, but hey, fuck that. So when you do get accepted into college in San Francisco, your mother literally screams and you both go out to the Olive Garden to celebrate.

When you hop on the plane at the airport, you hug your mom as tight as you can. She says you can do anything you want to do, and you say you will make her proud and give her what she never could give you. She waves goodbye as you enter the terminal, blowing a kiss.

Your mother never cries when you leave.

You cry your heart out.

When you arrive in San Francisco your world opens up. College is a delight, you make some new friends, and everything is looking up. You mom sends you letters and you save them all in a drawer by your bed.

You enjoy riding your bike up the steep hills, watching cliché Kung Fu movies on your twenty-five inch television past midnight, and visiting the planetarium. So many stars and space make your problems seem like dog shit. But if you have to pick any hobby you enjoy the most to pass the time and homesickness from L.A. it would be reading.

You absolutely_ love _reading. People back home who know you would give you odd looks at that confession, but when you got to college reading is the best thing you could do.

Now, you don't like the novels most people would guess, like _The Great Gatsby_ or Chaucer's tales or things of that sort. In fact, you only like one author and will read only from his series.

G.B. Kerthwood. The dude has a fuckin' horrible name, but he writes like an angel. Well, if an angel is good at writing smut.

There is just something about Kerthwood's novels that entice you. His stories have plots, actual plots that doesn't border on the overdone or tedious. Plus he is damn good at writing hot and steamy scenes. Kerthwood is a smut writer and you aren't ashamed to say you are his biggest fan. You own all of his books, read them late into the night under your covers with a flashlight on numerous occasions.

Kerthwood is the god of dirty writing and you want to meet him and get him to sign one of your copies.

It is strange for you to fawn over something like this, but the heart wants what the heart wants or something gay like that. You can't help if you have a boner for some guy who probably lives in his mom's basement and fantasizes about what real sex is like because, hey, you doubt someone who writes this filth will have much of a sex life to begin with.

But Kerthwood is an enigma, and he keeps himself out of the public's eye. He has no photos and makes no public appearances for his books, much to your chagrin. You doubt if you'll ever get to meet your idol.

Until one day your neighbor drops a stack of papers from his bag on his way out and you go to inform him.

He makes a shout of protest as you bend down, but it is too late. Your eyes must be the size of lily pads when you read the manuscript's title: _River's End_ by G.B. Kerthwood.

You look up and see the horror on his face.

You can't believe it. Your neighbor, stumpy, grumpy, and all around frumpy neighbor, is G.B. Kerthwood.

Hot damn.


End file.
